Though we are connected only by a phone line, hot rivulets of your flesh drip down my body and I need to understand. How are little molecules of you beading on my cock? Sliding down my throat? Coating me with your softness? I'll call it sweat. The scent of your flesh-cum-sweat has commandeered my nose and serenaded it with a song of pussy, a chorus of pussy an orchestral sweep of pussy ; the stuff that brings me to consciousness and rolls me out of bed in search of it daily. Pussy makes me buy the car I drive and the house I live in. I would so much rather go right to the source and drive your pussy; live in your pussy. I wonder: Can you fuck someone's pussy so hard that they taste it in their mouth? I long for the sexual synasthesia of a cum-flavored rainbow; a rose that tastes like your pussy, the warm, cinnamon smell of your screaming, groaning orgasm... did I dial the right number?
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